So I came here for what I imagined would be a literary adventure, as I thought it would be quaint, serene, incredibly real by virtue of being genuinely local. Instead, as you know if you read this blog (hate the word, will accept ideas for a better one, that doesn't sound like you are barely able to keep yourself from vomiting) I was robbed online and a sweet newlywed named Amy in Maryland caught it at the bank so I am still afloat, except I cannot use my bank account till I get back to the States and open a new one. Should be interesting, although I am too old to be a hooker. Or maybe not.
Brugge or Bruges as it was in the movie I never saw is dangerously cobbled, the streets bumpy and nigh on impossible for a slightly older woman with cleverly replaced hips that still know themselves not as they were. The surgeon who replaced one of them had an ex-wife of whom I reminded him, so I know I am probably lucky to be walking at all. But I was told that I was the first woman he actually talked to, as they are all very busy moving on and replacing, these surgeons. I hate to write anything that makes me sound my age, but it does seem sort of funny.
So I am going back to Amsterdam, where I was, after all, connected to some human beings even if they were in the Apple store, have some adorable little people I can look for on the other side of the canal I used to look out on, and there's Daniel who I love and can try to help stop smoking as he would be a cute old man if he lived. Interesting to me is how quickly I lost interest in Bruges or Brugge just because I was sort of raped.
This is a hard town on your feet and your hips if they're irregular, and on your heart if you have faith in people and they have access to the Internet, which I guess almost everybody does now, so be careful.
